


Reasoning Made Lucid

by thattrainssailed



Series: Words Hung Above, But Never Would Form [6]
Category: Shadowhunters
Genre: Body Worship, Dancing, Heavily implied bottom Alec, M/M, Magnus' body is a religion my guys, Magnus' magic, Non-Explicit Sex, and alec is your pope, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-26 13:50:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16682821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thattrainssailed/pseuds/thattrainssailed
Summary: The home of his motion of Pandemonium, of course; the place was designed for it, for dancing and jumping and grinding amongst a thousand bodies at a time. Smoke and patches of counterfeit light cut in between figures, occasionally caught in the hurricane of a particularly skilled dancer and turning into yet another curling shadow. For all the prodigious participants in the crowd, Magnus is always easily found. If his gravitas and outfit are not enough, then his siren melody is always accompanied by aqueous movement beyond anything on earth.The Downworld in its entirety could not hope to compete with the magic of Magnus’ hips, the trip of his feet.





	Reasoning Made Lucid

Having grown up a nephilim, the study of movement is nothing new to Alec. His childhood was made of constant checks on his form, his posture, his balance, encouraged to stay true to tried and true methods while simultaneously creating his own distinct style. His model of fighting is minimalist, no extravagant moves, but purposeful in every blow. His siblings are similar yet different - a symptom of discordant personalities founded in affection. Alec could pick their silhouettes purely from their movements, and they could do the very same for him. They were born to fight, to move with ease, to embody the fluid grace of their angelic ancestors, limbs becoming divine in sequence.

There is nothing angelic about the way Magnus moves.

The home of his motion of Pandemonium, of course; the place was designed for it, for dancing and jumping and grinding amongst a thousand bodies at a time. Smoke and patches of counterfeit light cut in between figures, occasionally caught in the hurricane of a particularly skilled dancer and turning into yet another curling shadow. For all the prodigious participants in the crowd, Magnus is always easily found. If his gravitas and outfit are not enough, then his siren melody is always accompanied by aqueous movement beyond anything on earth.The Downworld in its entirety could not hope to compete with the magic of Magnus’ hips, the trip of his feet. His arms move deliberately without halt and confidence drips, illuminated by that forgery of light, alongside sweat down his neck, bisecting his collarbone, obscenely tracing along his chest, framed by buttons long undone. His entire body throws itself into every twist and grind. Magnus moves as though it is his divine right, and yet Alec knows all too well that there is nothing holy about this motion. Alcohol dances in his bloodstream, pulling him towards the warlock, but he cannot. It is not his place to interrupt so sacred a movement. Magnus circles his hips to a filthy, achingly slow beat, and Alec finds himself dizzy with it. The sight settles through his skin, past his own muscles, into his bones and mixes with his marrow, until all that Alec contains is the knowledge of Magnus’ body in motion.

Of course, there is just as much elegance in Magnus during battle. The magic he wields in combat is distinct from what is present in dance: while the latter is hot, playful, seductive, this is cold, stoic, lethal. He cuts through the darkness around him, caring naught for the dampness of the New York air, his joints resisting all rust and exhaustion that may have been inflicted by gathering clouds. His hands flick and clench through eruptions of blue, one being left to finish the previous job as he spins his body and uses the other appendage to focus on the next foe. The motion never ceases; the colour from his palms is concentrated magic, but his entire being is power incarnate. A ravener demon enters the corner of his vision and Magnus immediately spins, the creature falling dead before the pirouette is finished. It has the power of hell, but in nothing approaching what is contained within its enemy. Night makes way for the warlock as he advances, monsters falling as every step is accompanied by a snap of his hand. Cat eyes accompany the feline grace of his motions. There is little time to admire - Alec has his own movements to think of his, his fingers against his bow, legs bending into a crouch - but the shadowhunter is hyper aware of his lover, the curve of his arms, the molten fatality of his muscles. Grace in the presence of death. Fluidity in destruction.

And then, in triad, there is movement in intimacy. Framed by whispers and cotton, their bodies press together, glide in harmony. With Magnus naked like this Alec can watch the pivot of each joint, the tensing of every muscle. He squirms under the shadowhunter’s mouth, nimble fingers pinching the sheets as Alec’s tongue moves over him. His head throws back and his mouth drops open so gracefully, as though eroticism is woven into his very being. Afterwards, Alec feels every movement of Magnus’ fingers inside him. The warlock is still, agonisingly so, eyes sweeping over Alec’s willing form as the motions of just those few fingers are accentuated by silence. Tendons crook and flex until Alec is writhing, and only then does Magnus finally come back to motion, moving forward to catch Alec’s exhalations with his own mouth. When Magnus finally enters him, it is slow and tender, movements deliberate and paced. Magnus’ hips are sacred like this and Alec clutches at them as a devotee, a profession of his dedication, his willingness to give himself over to the rite of Magnus and his movement. They rock together and Alec finds that this motion is not fluid but steady, solid, dignified and constant. It is movement for Alec, for Magnus, to link bind them together. Paced at first, getting faster, until desperation has them shaking together, skin against skin, Alec unable to tell which vibrations are his and which are Magnus’. Lips trace down Alec’s throat, chasing shudders, a dance all their own.  They stay pressed together for a long time, and Alec feels every one of Magnus’ movements in his own muscles.

Magnus’ movement is not angelic, but that is not to say that it is not holy, not divine in its own vision of the sacred. Magnus’ body is a religion all in itself, his movements the numinous, every motion of his limbs a sacred text that Alec studies in plenitude. There is sacrament in his dance, retribution in his combat, salvation in his love. His movements are a dance that Alec takes as ritual, and he feels blessed to be counted as a witness, a small part in this actualisation of the sacred. Magnus moves towards Alec, beckons him to follow, and Alec finds himself echoing those motions, moving in a way beyond the angelic, towards an absolution contained within Magnus’ being.

**Author's Note:**

> Hozier came into my house, punched me in the face, and bashed my head against the keyboard. This is the result. Title obviously taken from Movement.
> 
> More trash available on [tumblr](https://thattrainssailed.tumblr.com/).


End file.
